Infrequent Blogging May - or May Not - Continue/Adieu, 2020

Only a foolish, foolhardy fool would even attempt to predict the possible future frequency of blogging on this here Effulgent13 Blog. Clearly, Effulgent13 blogging has waned somewhat in recent times, and especially for the duration of this year. But, the blogging may yet continue (Lord Be Praised), for better or worse, and even without the help of New Year's Eve wine (which I may have started drinking a little early - and, yes, this blog is being written with the aid of a few wines). And I make no apologies for this - this year of 2020 is one which, very much so, necessitates the early drinking of New Year's Eve wine.

Of course, one does not have to blog whilst early NYE's wine drinking. But one can, and I am. And I'm feeling that I have neglected this blog of late; so if I can get one last, hopefully not too incoherent, but wildly meaningless, blog post written before the end of this year, then all is not lost.

So, since this is the final day of this year - the year of 2020 (Annus Covidus) - let me farewell thee; with grace, with compassion, with hope.

 

Dear 2020,

You were my final year with my beautiful pussycat Willow;

You gave us hard lockdowns - allowing me to justify excessive video game playing and excessive introversion;

You gave some succour to the flora and fauna (though not always to the humans) of earth;

You brought back long phone conversations (very Gen X);

You engendered face mask wearing - causing humans to realize how much we communicate with each other with just our faces(!);

You allowed the humans of earth to gain some understanding of the fragility of our existence (and, hopefully, to become more wisdomed because of this).

I am a Goddamn Giant!

I am no longer accepting my long held belief that I am small, nor am I accepting my long held belief that other people are big - even, and maybe especially, those people who seem quite strongly convinced of the enormity of their existence. However, despite the heading of this blog, I am not proposing that I am now exceptionally large, either objectively or in relation to others. I feel that I am reasonably and appropriately sized for the tasks assigned to me. But I suspect that the wisest and safest mindset, in regard to people size in general, is to understand that we (ie ME and everyone else) are all eminently and immensely minuscule.

The Fullness of Living Each Day to the Full

The final line of my high school anthem (aka School Song) was:
Live each day to the full!

We, the students (and probably some of the teachers), didn't really know the rest of the lyrics - something about seeking Christ and seeking wisdom, and possibly seeking wisdom in Christ (yes, it was a Catholic school) - but at school assembly, upon being instructed by our charismatic leader (aka the Principal) to sing the school song, we would mumble our way through until the last line, whereupon we would raise our voices in glorious chorus to proclaim our hive-mind intention to "Live each day to the full!!!". It was quite the invigorating experience. Say what you will about the evils of propaganda and mind control and whipping a crowd into a frenzy with apparently inspiring song lyrics and elevated levels of oxygen in the blood ('cos of having to take a really deep breath before the last line to make sure we 'sang' it as loud as possible), but I always felt kinda good afterwards and had more inclination to do some book learning.

However, I harbour some skepticism towards the popular notion that a person must 'live each day to the full'. It's a notion that seems to ascribe a moral duty to people to 'make the most out of life' - whatever that means, especially given that the fullness of living is subjective. Extrovert fullness would be going to every social function, travelling to every country, having many relationships. Introvert fullness would be avoiding every social function, staying in one place as long as possible, having a minimal number of relationships. Adrenaline junkie fullness would be skydiving, rock climbing, swimming with sharks. Not that I want to generalize or put people into restrictive categories or ignore the nuance and complexity of the human race (as satisfying as that may be), but it is possible to allocate people, to a degree, into different groups based on common behavioural and psychological traits. And these different groups have differing expectations and goals: 'loud' or 'quiet', many or few. Or no expectations and goals at all. Sometimes just getting through the day/week/year/century without too many catastrophes is a life well lived, goddammit!

It often seems as though a 'proper' expectation or goal should be loud - big and showy. And that if a person doesn't achieve, or attempt to achieve, they will be (should be) filled with regret. You'll never know if you don't try...You may never get this opportunity again...you only live once. I think I have enough self-insight, imagination, and wisdom to know that the thing you're berating me to do is something I do not want or need to do and that my life will be quite fulfilled, thank you, without having 'achieved' this annoying activity. Plus, this (at times, overbearing) insistence seems to be more about the person doing the insisting - maybe they have a domination power fantasy - than about the person being insisted upon. Also, and (possibly) most pertinently, there are many expectations and goals that are likely driven more by ego-fulfillment than by existential-fulfillment. Much like this blog post.

DVD/Video Games Rack as Christmas Tree

(Though, technically, it's actually a Baker's Rack)
(Whatever it is, it's gone a bit Yuletide)

Mountain of Video Tape

As The Age of the Video Tape Cassette is increasingly consigned to the annals of history, I find myself burdened with, well, video tape cassettes. And with the perplexing issue of what to do with my old video tape cassettes, and especially with the ones that I recorded my favourite shows/movies onto as I now, mostly, have these on dvd. They're not readily recyclable, nor are they overly biodegradable. And second hand shops are not so interested in video tapes anymore, particularly ones with shows/movies recorded from the television.

It's a challenge that must be tackled, and one that is ripe for intelligent and innovative problem solving. But as it is me who is in charge, the solving will happen not only in defiance of intelligence or innovation but with some measure of bumbling.

After hardly any consideration, I decided to go with blithely pulling apart the video tape cassettes, discarding the plastic casings into the recycle bin (hopefully they are recyclable), and unwinding the magnetic tape and dumping it onto my coffee table - and thus creating a majestic (and mysterious) video tape mountain.

Behold the mountain (side view):

from above:

closer and more blob-like (using creepifying special effects):

The video tape mountain is really quite awesome and adds a unique ambiance to my flat. At times, I wonder if there is a hidden message contained within the mountain; perhaps someone/something is trying to communicate with me via my subconscious and has guided me to create the mountain (like in that movie Close Encounters of the Third Kind). At other times, I worry that the mountain is actually sentient and possibly mobile (like in that movie The Blob), and then I don't sleep so well. And then there are times when I don't know where to put down my cup of coffee (like in that movie I Don't Know Where to Put Down My Cup of Coffee*).

*I cannot provide a link since this is a made up movie

Magic Mountain Count: Page 300

I'm struggling with The Magic Mountain. These last 100 pages have been something of a chore and I haven't maintained my reading schedule - weeks have gone by with barely 10 to 15 pages being read. I think it's time for, um, "hard decisions", or, at the very least, a change.

Thomas Mann's prose is a paradoxical combination of preciseness and verbosity. He can meander through a series of details, seemingly unnecessary as they are being read, which eventually piece together a comprehensive picture. I've noticed this particularly in his insightful, humorous and, occasionally, compassionate, descriptions of human behaviour, and in the descriptions of the ravages of disease on the human body. But there is much detail to wade through and I'm beginning to find the slow pace a little too slow. And the ramblings a little too rambly; being a philosophical novel, there are great swaths of character dialogue devoted to esoteric thinkings (Herr Settembrini especially - "Illness is a depravity" - is testing my patience, although, in fairness, he is also testing the patience of the novel's protagonist, Hans Castorp). Of course, The Brothers Karamazov also contained great rambly swaths, and I was able to manage those (albeit, at times, with great difficulty). But I was more tolerant of Karamazov (and Dostoyevsky). So why Karamazov and not Magic Mountain? There are a few possible reasons for this:

1) Karamazov and I have a long history; I bought the novel 12 years ago and had, at various times during those 12 years, attempted to read it - I certainly had strong motivation to finish it

2) Perhaps I connect intimately on some level with Dostoyevsky, something about him and/or his world view speaks to me

3) Starting a difficult novel so soon after finishing a difficult novel - especially one so significant to me - might have been asking too much of my brain capacity, and my endurance. I may have, inadvertently, cast Magic Mountain into the role of "rebound novel".

However, I do feel some spark with Magic Mountain; it has, at times, spoken to me - there is definitely potential. But I don't want to push things. I don't want the relationship to go sour because we got too serious too soon. So, I've decided Magic Mountain and I need more time and space, as novel and reader, to find our connection. I think we need to be just friends for awhile (NO benefits). We'll still be seeing each other, from time to time, but I'm not going to force things - I'll read it when I feel like reading it.

And, for anyone tempted to read The Magic Mountain, here is a philosophical-type excerpt to give you some idea what of to expect:

"What was life, really? It was warmth, the warmth produced by instability attempting to preserve form, a fever of matter that accompanies the ceaseless dissolution and renewal of protein molecules, themselves transient in their complex and intricate construction. It was the existence of what, in actuality, has no inherent ability to exist, but only balances with sweet, painful precariousness on one point of existence in the midst of this feverish, interwoven process of decay and repair." (pg 271)

I must now retire from this blog entry so I can attend to my very own "process of decay and repair".

Magic Mountain Count: Page 200

I'm having trouble deciding how to write this blog post - well, you could use the keyboard and type in some words - yes, THANKYOU, annoying and sarcastic voice in my head. What I mean is, I'm not sure how to capture the essence of pages 100 to 200 of The Magic Mountain. In fact, I'm not entirely sure what "the essence" is but I think that's okay since the book is 700 pages long and would probably be classified - to an extent - as a novel of ideas, which means it's unlikely to be easily accessed. Okay, what I really mean is: I don't know what the hell this novel is on about. Yet. I suspect I'll need to read at least another 100 pages, or even the entire novel, before it starts to reveal its true intentions.

Nevertheless, I will summarize what I have discovered so far. The events in the novel take place in a sanatorium in the Swiss Alps, in the years before World War I. The main character is Hans Castorp, a young man about to begin his career as a ship designer, who has taken himself to the sanatorium for a 3 week holiday/rest, and to visit his cousin, Joachim, who has tuberculosis. During this time Hans takes part in the daily routines of the sanatorium; walks in the alpine air, resting times ("rest cures"), lectures, music concerts (weekly) and numerous, and generous, meals. Hans begins to become acquainted with some of the other residents (mostly patients) as well as spending time with his cousin. He also begins to notice unusual aspects of his own physicality; his cheeks are frequently flushed, his cigars have lost their taste. Towards the end of his stay he senses that he's developing a cold. He takes his temperature - an activity the other residents conduct with great regularity and devotion - and discovers it is alarmingly high. A visit to one of the sanatoriums doctors reveals that Hans has a "wet area" on one of his lungs. Hans is ordered to stay at the sanatorium for another 3 weeks.

I think I've inadvertently chosen a very apt novel for myself to be reading at this point in my life - "for myself to be reading at this point in my life"; the essence of this sentence is grammatical violation. I'm kind of living the life of a confined person, although, thankfully, I'm not sick (especially with a life-threatening illness like tuberculosis) and I have the option of not being "confined". What I mean by "confined" is that I spend alot of time in my flat. A large reason for this is that I'm not employed, but also I choose not to "go out" very often. Most of the activities I enjoy doing I can do in my flat, eg reading (although I do sometimes "go out" to the library or the bookstore), sleeping, eating (occasionally I'll "go out" to eat), surfing the internet, watching dvd's (which means I have to "go out" to the dvd rentals store or the dvd shop), contemplating, exercising (sometimes I "go out" for a walk), studying my cat, writing this blog, staying in touch with friends (via email or phone - most of my friends don't live nearbye or have time-constrained lives, but I do enjoy "going out" to catch up with them when it's possible). I have to admit, though, that having the internet is a huge contributor to my being able to spend so much time by myself in my flat. I always look forward to logging on and finding out what's going on with the world - big and small. I think, despite my introverted and non-social ways, I'm not an island.

I've slightly veered away from comparing my current life to the lives of the residents of the sanatorium in The Magic Mountain. I think the similarities lie in both the reflective, retreat-like quality of our lives and the being outside of "conventional" life. In the novel, the residents refer to the towns below the Alps as "the flatlands" and speak of the flatlands as though they were a different, and, perhaps, less privileged, world. The "slowness" and "boredom" of life in the sanatorium provide a unique perspective. For myself, at the moment, this is something I really enjoy about not having a job. But I also enjoy not having work responsibilities, ie having to be at work on the required days and at the required time, having to present in a work-mode frame of mind (whatever the hell that means, maybe not being in a psychotic state - which is A LOT to ask of your average human being), being able to do the required work and continue to do the required work until the required time has elapsed, even though my every human fibre longs to be somewhere else and mortal life is short. (Yes, me and work are not affable companions at this time).

So, in conclusion...actually, there won't be a conclusion, more of a: I've waffled on enough and would like to end this blog post before my brain implodes.

Magic Mountain Count: Page 100

"A great many false ideas have been spread about the nature of boredom"
The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann, pg 102

Don't be fooled by this quote, I'm not bored by this book. In fact, as someone who is very interested in 'the nature of boredom', I'm quite enjoying this slow-paced novel (though it is light speed compared to Karamazov). The sentence I've quoted is part of a wordier section discussing the passage of time - the quickness or slowness of it, depending on the type of activity or task being conducted. I think it's an apt quote for a novel set in a sanatorium in the Swiss Alps. Quoting from the back cover "To this hermetic yet intrigue-ridden world comes Hans Castorp, a 'perfectly ordinary' young man who arrives for a short visit and ends up staying seven years". Ain't that the truth.

So far there hasn't been any magic (well it is called The Magic Mountain). I was hoping for some wizards or fairies, maybe even a troll. So far there's just been tuberculosis, although I guess this could be considered a kind of troll. There is sex, alluded to, rather than graphically described: "...and beyond any doubt, the game had turned bestial" pg 38 - BESTIAL! there's a word I've never used in polite conversation, or ever. But the first 100 pages of The Magic Mountain has not disappointed, it has been both literary and weird, qualities I look for in the novels I choose for my "special reading project".


Note: The edition I'm reading has been translated by John E. Woods.

Mountainous Magic

As the final pages of "The Brothers Karamazov" approach, I have been contemplating my life, post-Karamazov. Will there be a void and, if so, how will I fill it? It's only been a year since I brought Karamazov out from the back of the bookshelf and into my everyday life, but it seems (much, much) longer. I've grown accustomed to living each day with barely comprehensible literature. I don't know if I want to go back to my old ways; the desolate, easily comprehended wasteland, filled with crappy television, readable prose and the ever present temptation to set up my old PlayStation (maybe even buy the latest version...Nooooooooo!!!).

So I've decided that I can't let this word-insanity end. But don't panic! I'm not going to re-read Karamazov. Instead, I've chosen another (hopefully) barely comprehensible masterpiece of literature to read in the same fashion as Karamazov (2-6 pages per day): The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann. I don't have too much knowledge about either the novel or Thomas Mann (other than that Thomas Mann won a Nobel prize (for literature - Duh!) and the novel was written in German (but, thankfully, it has been translated, as my German is about as good as my Russian, ie scheiss*)). I've decided not to do any research prior to reading so as to form my own impressions (I might look into things afterwards). There is, of course, the possibility that the novel is comprehensible, even a 'page turner', however, I strongly suspect this won't be the case. Other novels I've read by Nobel prize winners required varying degrees of "slow reading" in order to be with the comprehending.

So why The Magic Mountain? Why choose a novel I know very little about? How did this all come about? WTF??? Ummm...'cos it sounded pretty?

Well, it does (sound pretty). But, in actual truth, I came across the novel about 6 months ago whenst I googled "Magic Mountain" and there it was, and I thought unto myself: "I shall read this novel, one day...hmmm...why don't I read it after I've finished Karamazov. Groovy!". Of course, this begets the question: "Why were you googling Magic Mountain in the first place, pumpkin?". The reason, rose-petal, I was googling such words, is that, due to my having given the name "Magic Mountain" to a completely incomprehensible poem I wrote, and, thinking that the name sounded familiar, I wondered if there was a famous poem of the same name (there doesn't seem to be). And lo!, amongst adds for Magic Mountain Resorts and Magic Mountain Fun Parks, I beheld one Magic Mountain Novel. Oh, happy day! So I clicked onto the link (yes, it was to wikipedia), did a quick eye-to-brain scan of the entry and was immediately drawn to the novel's Incomprehensible Potential.

And so it continues...



* shit (in German)